


black (and red)

by cloudburst



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: M/M, SO, So yeah, also, except i actually meant to kill him, i wanted angst so i wrote some but also this isn't super angsty, inspired by an imagine tumblr post i cant find ):::, probably not too angsty for consumption unless your angst tolerance is like -5, soulmate au to make thr angst, the angst isn't until the literal end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 12:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10741731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudburst/pseuds/cloudburst
Summary: You're not a good person; but you will spend every moment of your life trying to be good for him.---Reyes is in love. He won't say it.





	black (and red)

**Author's Note:**

> so cw: major character death at the veeeeeery end. 
> 
> i like angst, wanted angst, so i wrote some angst
> 
> also, there was a tumblr post this was inspired by and i literally cannot find it. if anyone knows it, please hit me up so i can link it. thank you. 
> 
> this is also the product of me getting my wisdom teeth out, 10/10
> 
> final note: i use my 2nd ryder's name here, ra'id, but it's literally only once, thx for ur patronage

You know the stories—in your world, your universe—your soulmate's name appears on your wrist, just beneath the area where arm meets wrist and becomes a hand. But this phenomena is only witnessed once a couple is already in love, and the notion has been expressed with those three monotonous words: _I love you_. 

You've seen it happen—seen the black ink escape from veins, bleeding against the skin as if it's natural. ( _It isn't._ ) And you've seen the red ink—signaling a soulmate's death, swelling as blood to ruin lives—forever staining red the name of whoever dies first—on the wrist of who loved them. ( _This red ink shows itself even if you've never said those words, even if you've never met your soulmate. You mourn for someone you've never met—as if you're missing a piece of yourself. You don't understand it—the constant search for your other half._ ) 

You hope to never see your wrist turn to black. You hope to never witness the skin's discoloration, for you refuse to let the fate of your love be decided for you. Maybe your wrist will never change—remaining a constant as those around you fall into one another. Maybe that is okay. You know that love is not for exiles—and love is certainly not meant for Kadara Port. Kadara Port is for short trysts with no promises spoken between shifting bedcovers; Kadara Port is for usefulness—for deciding who can be used, or who has used you. Kadara Port _is for you._

At least, that's what you'd thought, till you saw him there in Kralla's Song—leaned against the counter, at ease, as if he belonged there. ( _He could belong anywhere, with you. You'd let him._ ) You offered him a drink, and he accepted. But in return, his eyes drank you in, a beverage you hadn't offered, and you were lost in galaxies you'd never seen before. ( _You doubt he had, either. He was inventing nebulas with each passing word._ ) You were parched, in the desert, in your mind. Never had Kadara seemed more humid. 

At least, that's what you'd thought till he kissed you—his lips bleeding unsaid words at the part of yours, burning meaning into your skin with his fingertips. It was warm, too warm; so you pulled back, but he begged another for legitimacy's sake, and you indulged graciously—ending up on the roof, sun beating down upon your heavy, hunched shoulders to prove you wrong. You wanted to be someone; _maybe_ , you wanted to be someone to him. 

He turned to you, whispered: _'You're someone to me.'_ And never had Kadara seemed warmer. 

* * *

In reality—you realize you should have told him. That becomes evident as his lips twist downward—hurt splitting galaxies apart, causing destruction in his eyes. 

" _Reyes_?" And he says it as a question, but answers himself with silence. His realization is clear. Just as you are. 

You're clear on what needs to be done—for the good of the Collective, of Kadara Port, and yourself. Your reasons are not totally selfish. (You admit, _mostly selfish._ ) So when Sloane falls to the ground, and Ryder does nothing to save her, you think: _This is it._

You've reached the end of the line, and out of some misbegotten sense of duty to you, (if that's even what it is), Ryder allowed her to fall. ( _Even your thoughts are selfish. You know Ryder recognized Kelly's danger, yet you want this to be about you. You want him to need—no, love you._ )

You tell him as much. 

_"I liked the way you looked at me. I was afraid that would change."_

_"Nothing's changed."_

You never thought Kadara Port would bring anything good to you—besides credits and shifty alliances more fragile than Director Tann's ego. Yet you're allowed this. 

You're not a good person; but you will spend every moment of your life trying to be good for him. 

_You will._

* * *

His nails dig into the skin of your back—stretching light pink constellations brighter than any stars across your skin. He releases a soft breath, your lips at his neck, legs around you—caging you in from below. There's nowhere you'd rather be, soft nothings you'd never thought you'd want, but now can't live without being whispered at the curve where your neck meets shoulder. His words are muffled—soft, just like this moment. 

Later, you lay next to him on your side, arm at his hip as he faces you—sensing galaxies burning beneath his eyelids. Then he opens his eyes, locked on your face, and leans forward—presses a light kiss to your chin, then temple. Your heart skips a beat. You are flying. 

His left hand comes to rest against your cheek, thumb caressing cheekbone—back and forth motion more dependable than anything you've ever experienced. You know you will always have this. 

You're not surprised—

—when he whispers: _"I love you."_

You're not surprised—

—when your name appears in black ink on his left wrist: _Reyes Vidal._

You nod. You don't say it back. 

But he smiles. 

He knows.

* * *

It's a day like any other; Keema runs you through potential threats to Collective interests in the morning—holding you for approximately an hour. 

And the sun is high, as it always is on Kadara—burning hot, flight suit slick with sweat sticking to your body. 

But it's the thought that the Tempest has requested docking permission tomorrow that fuels you through the small bout of trouble you manage to get yourself into. It's thoughts of _him_ , of Ryder and being able to crush him to your chest without restraint, of being able to feel _loved_ — 

That's what gets you through. 

Every day. 

You were hurt against the Roekarr that day—thinking nothing of the stinging pain splintering across your right wrist—likely a graze or a cut. You don't even care; just live for him. Just live for him. _Just live._

And you do—returning to your private room in Tartarus, pulling down the sweat and blood sick flight suit. 

Your eyes inspect the damages you can find—bruises blossoming like ugly nebulas on your arms and legs and ribs. They're nothing like Ryder can create with his fingertips upon your skin. 

Perhaps the thought of _him_ is why you look to your wrist—where his name should be, where it will be tomorrow—once you gain the courage to tell him you've realized how you feel. You're no longer scared. 

But his name already exists in the form of ink, pulled from beneath your skin. Your eyes swell, just as your heart sinks. 

For on your wrist, in red ink: _Ra'id Ryder._

* * *

Perhaps, you'd had Kadara Port right all along. 

The Charlatan bleeds red as the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> please shower me in ur praise or disgust, thanks


End file.
